Art of Comfort
by mar-map
Summary: It's been two years since the fall of the Axis Powers, but England still hasn't relieved himself of the fear whenever he hears a plane overhead.


(**Disclaimer: **I do not claim to own Hetalia: Axis Powers in any way. Also, I apologize for any historical inaccuracies.)

"England!" the American complained loudly. The older nation simply sighed and tugged him along. America always seemed like this. He was quick to complain. "I don't want to go! It's not going to be any fun!"

The older blond wasn't about to disagree with that. He had no doubt the event would be long and filled with France's creepy jokes. Well, at least England's would be. America's night would probably end up being boisterous and fun for him. England envied the younger nation on that point.

"You'll have fun, America," England told the other gently. The statement was innocent enough. Most likely America would have fun. "It's the anniversary of V-Day. It's a time to celebrate." An almost bittersweet smile came to the Englishman's lips. Two years ago the axis had finally caved to the allies.

The memories were terrible from that war. Well, most of them, that was. The Second World War had brought the two of them together to finally rejoin the relationship they'd once had. Good things had arisen from tragedy.

"Russia and I aren't getting along so well," the American felt the need to inform the Englishman. England knew there was rising strife between the cold Russian and boisterous American. Even with his own troubles the tension was palpable in the air. England worried about the other nation. Being on Russia's bad side could easily be deadly.

The flick of his emerald eyes to the American was almost unconscious. He couldn't help but scan them worriedly over the American. Through all the strife and conflict of the Second World War had rose a superpower. Alfred was a power house bottled up in a man's body - for he was a man now and had been for some time really. A bottled powerhouse about to be released on Russia. It was really only a matter of time.

England should have know since the day he first held the little colony of America in his arms that it would come to this one day. Well, not the attack on Russia but him becoming the next world superpower. He had always been so strong, maybe he'd been taught a little too well.

"We're almost there, America," England told the other. "Besides, it's not as if you and Russia will be the only nations there. You can talk to someone else."

"But, England," the American whined. He pulled at the Englishman's arm. "I'd talk to Mattie, but he'll have France around being all creepy. I don't really know China, but he's been getting really close to Russia lately. You think they'll get together to attack me?"

The older blond frowned. "I..." What could he say to that? It was probably true. "I'm not sure what they're planning," England told the other honestly. "I'm sure you'll get through it fine," he answered confidently. "I'll be with you the world time."

"Really, England?" There was almost a boyish glee in his tone. England couldn't help but feel a small smile come to his lips. Even as a massive powerhouse the American could still manage to find that young innocence. England could never imagine himself as such, especially not during his empire days. "I'm the hero!" he announced with predictability. "I'll lead the way!"

America charge forward to take the lead from the Englishman. "I was doing perfectly fine on my own, America," England grumbled. He allowed little conviction to sink into his voice. He would never admit how worried of America's strange behavior he'd been. Just the fact he was allowing England to drag him through New York for the party was a testament to that.

The problems with Russia had been weighing him down quite a bit, that was clear enough. "Except we've been going in circles for, like, ever! If we actually want to get there, I'll do the heroic leading." America stuck his tongue out playfully. There was normal America.

England simply scowled. "Well, maybe if you hadn't become all bloody depressed we wouldn't have to worry about it." England glared at the back of the American's head in annoyance.

"I wasn't depressed. I was heroically saddened. It's better sounding, y'know? Besides, I've never actually been in a war with someone else without back-up, right? I'm a bit nervous, I suppose. In a heroic way, of course."

"Yes, of course," England repeated quietly. "You're not alone though. I told you, I'd stick with you whatever happened."

The young blond stopped and grinned. It didn't hold his usual triumph and all-around winning quality. His smile was gentle, endearing, sad. "I know, Artie," he said gently. It was a tone the American used with animals to coax them. England knew two things around himself: He was a gentleman at all times, and he most certainly _wasn't_ an animal. "You'll help me in spirit."

"In spirit?" the Englishman squawked.

American grimaced, "We both know you can't really help me, England." America pulled the other in for a hug which the older nation quickly slapped away. The older blond crossed his arms over his chest and glared viciously at the other who seemed to shrink back from the reprimand. How dare the bloody prat refuse his help!

"Want to say that again, you bloody git?" England demanded. There was no way the bloody American would say it again. "I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland! My empire was the one upon which the sun never set; it was many times larger than both France and Spain's, and you refuse _my_ help?"

"Yes, yes, I do." England never said he wasn't a cheeky brat. "Your economy and cities are both in ruins, you still owe me tons of money, your people are terrified, and you're just not ready to throw yourself into another war!"

"I'll recover!"

"Well, yeah! I never said you were weak, England, I said you need time to heal." America desperately looked like he wished to try his luck with another hug but discarded that idea in favor of living a bit longer. "When you're better and stuff maybe you can help out a bit. Besides, we don't even know if this will come to war." America paused to shoot England an odd look.

England grabbed the sleeve of America's thick bomber jacket. He pulled sharply. "America, hurry, we need to get inside." The younger blond stumbled a bit. he was surprised by the force of England's tug.

"England!" America whined. He flailed his arm with a whine in a vain attempt to shake off the Englishman. "Let go!"

It was clear the other was clenching his teeth in annoyance. Another sharp tug earned England a yelp from the American but no movement. The younger of the two nations had been expecting the pull this time. Before pulling again, the Englishman hesitated. "It-it's gone."

Carefully the Englishman loosened his hold on the other's sleeve. It would have been easy for America to pull away now. He, however, was more focused on the new slump in England's shoulder, the tired movement he now made, but most importantly, the haunted look in his emerald eyes.

"What's gone?"

"The - nothing."

America glared at England suspiciously. The older one was avoiding eye-contact, and that always mean he was hiding something. Not to mention that England had never actually released his bomber jacket. He was no longer pulling at it in favor of kneading the brown material in his fingers. when England rubbed his other hand over the location of his heart, American understood.

"You're afraid of a silly plane?" When England didn't stop his vicious scrub over his chest, the younger nation had to pull his hand away. "Stop that, Iggy. You'll make it start bleeding again. It had just started to heal too."

"Sod off."

All right, so maybe the Englishman wanted desperately for the American to hold him. He wanted to weep openly into that comforting embrace, and he wanted to rave angrily in frustration about the German's cowardly attack strategy.

"Don't wanna," the American told him childishly. England got part of his wish when the American tugged him into a hug. "Remember, you're in America, nothing bad happens here." England tried his hardest not to nuzzle too noticeably into America's chest. England didn't have the heart to mention the events of Pearl Harbor to the other. The wounds were still too fresh.

"You're such a...a..."

"Brat? Git? Prat?" America supplied.

"Dreamer." America smiled gently down at the other who obviously had his head buried into the bomber jacket. The only part of him that America could see was the shaggy mess of blond hair. "And a bloody brilliant hero."

The blond American nuzzled his nose into the shaggy blond hair. "that's what I'm here for."

"Well, you do quite a fine job," England answered. He had to speak the worlds gently into America's shirt to avoid revealing his bright flush. "We really should be getting to that party now, America."

The American coughed into his hand, looking to the path ahead. "or we could take a rain-check, and go back to my place for a movie?" America shifted closer to nuzzle his nose into England's neck.

The older nation figured he'd already embarrassed himself to the point where he might as well voice what the both of them wanted. "Only if there's cuddling involved."

"Anything for you, Arthur."


End file.
